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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24053164">Want</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riona/pseuds/Riona'>Riona</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Johnny the Homicidal Maniac</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Dreams, Inspired by Vargas, M/M, Non-Consensual Kissing, mild violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 17:41:02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,215</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24053164</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riona/pseuds/Riona</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>His recurring dreams aren't the same, now that Scriabin's in his head.</p>
<p>(Inspired by the fic <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/49492/chapters/65055"><i>Vargas</i></a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zarla/pseuds/Zarla">Zarla</a>.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Edgar/Scriabin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Want</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">


        <li>
            Inspired by

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/49492">Vargas</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zarla/pseuds/Zarla">Zarla</a>.
        </li>

    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is not, I'll admit, the most timely fic, but I just finished a reread of <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/49492/chapters/65055"><i>Vargas</i></a> and was reminded of my intense investment in Edgar and Scriabin's weird relationship. My love of these two is deep and longstanding and terrible.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Interesting that you’re still having the same boring dreams you did before,” Scriabin says. “You’ve seen Johnny butcher people, you’ve <i>welcomed</i> him as a constant threat to your life, but in your sleep you’re still more concerned about when the train will arrive. Nothing’s changed.”</p>
<p>Something’s changed, Edgar thinks. He always used to be alone on the train platform. Scriabin wasn’t next to him, hands in the pockets of his coat.</p>
<p>Edgar glances at the display board. Still blank, no time for the next train. He knows this is a dream, he knows the trains aren’t real, but somehow it still makes him uneasy.</p>
<p>It shouldn’t be a surprise. He’s had this dream more times than he can count, and the train never arrives.</p>
<p>“Shall we analyse what this means about you?” Scriabin suggests.</p>
<p>“Let me guess,” Edgar says, his voice flat. “The train’s a phallic symbol. It’s all about how desperately I want Nny.”</p>
<p>“I want you to remember I’m not the one who said that,” Scriabin says.</p>
<p>There’s a pause.</p>
<p>“It means you’re waiting,” Scriabin says.</p>
<p>Edgar frowns at him. “You think I need you to tell me that the dream where I’m literally waiting on a train platform—”</p>
<p>“I never said the symbolism was <i>difficult</i>,” Scriabin says. “But you never change your behaviour, so I’m forced to point it out anyway. You’re waiting. You’ve always been waiting. You’ve never actually <i>done</i> anything in your life.”</p>
<p>Edgar sighs. “So what do you want me to do?”</p>
<p>“Of course you have to ask <i>me</i>,” Scriabin says. “You don’t have any drive, any desires of your own. What do you <i>want</i>, Edgar?”</p>
<p>Dodging the question. He probably doesn’t have any more of an answer than Edgar does.</p>
<p>Scriabin’s fist slams into his abdomen, just below the ribs.</p>
<p>Guess he didn’t like that thought.</p>
<p>Edgar stumbles back, half doubled over, gasping.</p>
<p>“Of course I want things,” Scriabin snarls, advancing on him. “I don’t <i>have</i> anything. I’m stuck here, in your head, watching you take your own body and your own life and do <i>nothing</i> with them. I want to be a <i>person</i>, I want to have a body—”</p>
<p>“To do what?” Edgar asks.</p>
<p>This is a bad idea. But he’d be thinking it if he hadn’t said it, so he’d be facing the consequences either way.</p>
<p>Scriabin stops talking. Stares at him for a moment. Or that’s the best guess Edgar can make, at least, with his eyes hidden.</p>
<p>“You don’t know,” Edgar says.</p>
<p>“What, that’s the conclusion you reach because I don’t answer within half a second?” Scriabin asks. “I was just impressed by what a uselessly vague question that was. Go up to someone on the street and ask them <i>what do you do with your body</i> and see if you get an immediate answer.”</p>
<p>Edgar straightens up. “Okay, I’ll make it more specific. What if you had my life and my body?” (Scriabin takes half a step back.) “What’s the first thing you’d do?”</p>
<p>A moment passes.</p>
<p>“Well, I’d cut off contact with Johnny, obviously,” Scriabin says.</p>
<p>“That’s your first step to living my life properly? Having fewer friends?”</p>
<p>“Oh, I’m <i>so</i> sorry,” Scriabin says, going slightly high-pitched in his outrage, “I didn’t realise the constant risk of getting a <i>knife through your throat</i> was such an enriching factor of your days. Yes, actually, I <i>do</i> think we’d be living our life better if we got rid of the biggest threat to it.”</p>
<p>“Okay,” Edgar says. “You cut contact with Nny. He knows where you live and where you work, so you’ll need to move and leave your job.” He’s thought about the logistics of this before. If he wanted to stop associating with Nny, half-measures would probably get him killed. He’d have to disappear. “You always say my life is so empty, but the first thing you’d do with it is get rid of all the things I actually have. What next?”</p>
<p>Scriabin lunges at him.</p>
<p>Edgar’s knocked to the platform. It probably doesn’t hurt as much as it would in real life, and he’s grateful for that, at least. But it hurts.</p>
<p>“Fuck you,” Scriabin growls into his face. “God, you think you’re so good at this.”</p>
<p>Edgar breathes, carefully.</p>
<p>“You think you’re so good at this,” Scriabin says, again. There’s a ragged edge to his voice, like he’s been running. “You really think you’ve got me pinned down. You’re so fucking smug.”</p>
<p>Scriabin definitely isn’t the one who’s pinned down right now. He’s warm and heavy and far too close. His hair is brushing Edgar’s cheek.</p>
<p>Edgar is—</p>
<p>He’s thinking of when he died. Scriabin... disguising himself as Johnny, and binding Edgar with straps and ropes and chains, and—</p>
<p>And—</p>
<p>He tries to push the thought away, but of course Scriabin’s already heard it.</p>
<p>Scriabin’s scowl turns to a smirk. He knows he has the upper hand again. “Fond memories?”</p>
<p>“It wasn’t real,” Edgar whispers.</p>
<p>That’s not what he meant to say.</p>
<p>“It was real,” Scriabin says. “It wasn’t really your beloved <i>Nny</i>, but it still happened. I’m touched that you remember our kiss.”</p>
<p>He wasn’t exactly going to forget.</p>
<p>Scriabin traces a line down Edgar’s throat with a finger. “Guess I was oversimplifying when I said you didn’t want anything.”</p>
<p>It’s an effort to speak. “I don’t want...”</p>
<p>Nny? Scriabin?</p>
<p>Scriabin kisses him.</p>
<p>Edgar doesn’t... have a lot of romantic experience. People don’t notice him. It’s not something he’s ever been particularly bitter about; it just happens to be something that hasn’t really arisen in his life.</p>
<p>Is this what it would feel like, if Scriabin were a real person, if they were really kissing? Or is this just what Edgar imagines kissing might be like?</p>
<p>Scriabin breaks the kiss, barely pulls away, and somehow the interruption makes it real. Edgar was able to distract himself while it was happening, bury himself in the question of how this works in his dreams. But now it’s real.</p>
<p>“Fight me,” Scriabin whispers. The words are hot against Edgar’s skin.</p>
<p>It takes Edgar a moment to find his voice, and when he does it doesn’t sound right. “What?”</p>
<p>“Fight me.” Scriabin kisses him again. “Or kiss me back. One or the other. Either you want this, or you don’t. Make a goddamn decision for once in your life.”</p>
<p>Edgar swallows. “I—”</p>
<p>He can do this. He can take action, he can make a decision. He’s capable of that, whatever Scriabin might say.</p>
<p>He kisses Scriabin, and somehow that breaks straight through Scriabin’s show of control. Scriabin jerks back slightly, gasps against Edgar’s mouth, and Edgar takes the opportunity to shove him away, a violent motion of his right knee and elbow.</p>
<p>“That...” Scriabin stumbles to his feet, drawing the back of his hand across his mouth. “That’s not a decision.” He’s obviously aiming for a tone of unruffled disdain, but he’s not quite hitting it. “I offer you two clear options, I tell you to make a choice for once, and you do <i>both?</i> Are you really that incapable of taking a side?” He adjusts his trenchcoat, clears his throat. “It’s embarrassing, really.”</p>
<p>Edgar stays where he is, lying on the platform, breathing hard and shallow. Looking up at Scriabin.</p>
<p>There’s a clattering of wheels, and the train pulls into the station.</p>
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